HSM: The Morning, Year and Life After
by rhapsodybree
Summary: After a few too many at the End of Year Staff Party, Jack Bolton wakes up in the bed of his nemesis, Ms Darbus. That's not the only shock in store for him though, his future forever changed. On hiatus.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I own nothing, except my own creations.

**Author's note: **I've watched High School Musical a number of times, High School Musical 2 once, but have yet to see High School Musical 3: Senior Year. So this story is written based on my knowledge from watching the original movie, and will no doubt deviate away from the subsequent movies.

This multi-chapter story is rated T for some adult concepts and language.

* * *

Jack Bolton blearily opened his eyes.

Squinting at the harsh sunlight that flooded the room, it took him a moment to realise that the bed he was in, the sheets wrapped around his various limbs, and the gauzy canopy hanging from the bedposts above him were most certainly NOT his.

Struggling to ascertain his surroundings, his brain worked furiously to try and recall the last thing he could remember. Drinks, dance, drinks, argue, drink… taxi?

The End of Year Staff Party.

At the realisation, he pushed himself upright, mentally pushing away the pounding in his head fiercely with little success. He battled nausea as his hand pulled free from the troublesome sheet and came into touch with something soft.

He was caressing it for a few short seconds before his befuddled and slowly functioning mind set the warning bells off. His eyes sharpened as he stopped his actions, slowly pulling his hand back and looking down to see who possessed the softness.

The soft upper arm belonged to a serene sleeping – very much naked – woman. Gingerly shifting to gaze into the face of his bed partner without waking her, he found himself to be looking down at the one and only Ingrid Darbus.

Oh shit.

He had no time to process what this meant as at that exact moment his mobile phone rang. The ring tone blared repeatedly, shattering the still of the bedroom.

He fumbled with the sheets wrapped around him, finally throwing them back ferociously and able to stand. He was oblivious to his own nakedness as he looked around for the still ringing offender, mindful of his bed partner whom he really wanted to stay asleep for as long as possible.

Spotting his pants over a chair on the far side of the room, he raced over. Kicking the chair in his eagerness to reach his mobile, he snatched up the discarded garment, ignoring the throbbing pain in his big toe as he breathlessly answered the phone.

'Hello?' Damn, he should have checked caller id first.

'Jack?' asked the voice on the other end. 'Are you okay?'

'Luce?' Double damn. 'I'm fine.'

'Where are you?' his wife continued in a teasing tone. 'Passed out at the party?'

In a manner of speaking.

'Where am I?' hedged Jack as he took in his surroundings, noting the warm, homey feel that the small bedroom had. Averting his eyes from the bed, he continued. 'A friend let me crash at their place after a few too many. I've just woken up now.'

'Well, I suggest you check your watch mister because you have five minutes to get here before my parents arrive,' said Lucille Bolton, a warning tone underlying her statement.

But they weren't coming til… Oh shit, it's past 11. 'I'm on my way,' he promised quickly, shoving his mobile between his jaw and shoulder as he began to gather up his belongings.

Hanging up the phone, feeling so dirty saying an 'I love you' as he ended the call, he held his pants in hand as he turned to face the bed. He considered his options before he just shook his head, threw on the bare minimum and bolted out the door without an explanation.

He was never going head to head with Ingrid Darbus ever again. That woman could hold her liquor.

Throwing the fare at the taxi driver before he'd even pulled up in front of his house, Jack Bolton raced up the path, dashed past his wife in the kitchen and was momentarily stalled by his son on the stairs. Troy gave him a strange look as he began to unbutton his shirt, intent on a shower. 'You okay Dad? You look a bit worse for the wear.'

'Fine, just fine,' responded Jack in a hurry. 'Just let me get in the shower and then we'll face the in-laws together.'

Troy laughed. His dad was okay. 'Better hurry then,' he said. 'Mom's gonna kick your butt like usual.'

He nodded as Troy made his way down the stairs and he headed for the bathroom. Out of earshot of his son, he muttered under his breath. 'It's not my butt I'm worried about this time.'

* * *

_Coming up: _The long summer is over and school begins once again.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I own nothing, except my own creations.

* * *

Summer passed and then school returned for the new year.

Jack Bolton and Ingrid Darbus – by an unspoken accord – decided that they would never mention that night. Ever. Again.

Staff room communications – which had always been heated and spiteful at best – now become non-existent, Darbus content with throwing glares at the man who had left her the morning after without even a note.

Events conspired against her though, and soon Darbus found herself having to talk with Bolton. She'd been horrified to discover that in the summer break, bad plumbing had destroyed the performing arts theatre carpet and an inspection had also revealed that wood holding up the stage to be rotting.

Faced with the prospect of no rehearsal space and no musicale, Darbus needed the gymnasium.

She considered a soft approach, but – as seemed to be a regular occurrence these days – her mood swiftly shifted and she stormed down to the locker rooms.

Teenage boys – some already having faced the wrath of the drama teacher in home room (and noted that she was more explosive than usual) – quickly ducked back into shower cubicles and ran for their lives as the fuming woman marched past them.

They felt sorry for Coach Bolton and whatever it was that he had done this time, but hey, he was a big man and he could look after himself they all reasoned as they scattered.

Without any knocking or other warning, Ingrid Darbus threw open the partially ajar door and faced the surprised sport teacher, his sandwich stopping on its way to his mouth, a piece of tomato making it's merry way from its lettuce and cheese neighbours to plop on the wrapping.

Jack Bolton considered himself a strong man, not lacking in courage and decidedly manly, but faced with the fuming woman before him, he swallowed visibly. 'Darbus,' he ventured, dropping his sandwich and leaning back in his chair with a degree of confidence that he didn't feel.

'I need your gym,' declared Darbus without much further ado.

Forget the past, this involved the very present and future. 'I don't think so,' he responded, just as certain.

'The flooding of the auditorium has put MY musicale in jeopardy and I'm not about to let that happen,' she declared imperiously.

'And MY team is getting ready for back-to-back championships,' shot Jack Bolton back as he rose from his chair, hands firmly planted on his desk as he eyed his nemesis.

She slammed her own palms down. 'You have no appreciation for the arts.'

Now where had he heard that before? 'And you have no understanding of basketball,' he shouted in response.

'Sexist machoist pig.'

'Arty farty type.'

She sputtered at his quick response. 'Mr Tomato Head.'

He would have laughed if it wasn't so serious. 'Pea brain.'

'Brussel sprout lover.'

'Hornet's nest.'

He was prepared for some other insult to come flying back at him, but when Ingrid Darbus suddenly burst into tears he was floored. Unsure of what to do, he edged back warily. This could just be another one of her tricks in a bid for the sympathy vote and free run of his gym. But as the tears failed to abate and her distress came to include chest-heaving sobs, Bolton had a feeling that perhaps this was for real.

Slowly, he stepped out from behind his desk. Awkwardly, he placed a hand on Darbus' should, giving it a pat or two.

He'd expected a shove or retort – or maybe even a punch – but the woman never ceased to amaze him as she summarily threw herself into his arms and began to wet his shirt with her tears.

Faced with a distraught woman in his arms, and with his first option of running for the hills now long gone, Jack Bolton did the next best thing and wrapped his arms around Ingrid Darbus and held her as she cried.

His hands were awkwardly patting her back when he had the sensation that he was being watched. Looking up he raised one hand and shoo-ed away his nosy charges. His team rallier Chad Danforth raised his hand with a wary-cum-disgusted look and shut the door, leaving the two teachers alone.

The waterfalls finally abated some time later and they separated instantly at that moment. Neither had expected the other to be the other when this happened.

Bolton offered Darbus a tissue and retreated to the other side of his desk – a good solid barrier now in place between them – as Darbus took a deep breath and dabbed at her eyes, wiping her nose.

Tissue disposed of, she was somewhat back to her fiery self as she pulled a piece of paper from her bag. 'I've created a schedule that will allow us to _share _the gym.' She said 'share' in such a manner as if she were the one making the sacrifice.

Confidence restored, Jack Bolton eased back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. 'No.'

Darbus continued to outline the plan before it hit her that she was being denied. 'No?!' she screeched. 'No!?'

'No,' he confirmed with a smirk. 'I refuse for my haven to be overrun with girls that can't sing, boys that ought to be elsewhere and props, costumes and god knows what else invading my space. East High Wildcats are not going to be distracted this year. Mark my word.'

Darbus looked like a goldfish before she scrunched up the schedule and threw it at Bolton's face – cheering inwardly when it hit the smirking man right between the eyes. Turning on her heel, she threw open the door and flounced down the hall. Well, she would have if she could have opened the door on her first attempt.

After her third attempt, she stormed down the corridor thunderously.

Jack Bolton shook his head wryly as he picked up the scrunched paper, smoothing out the schedule as he picked up his discarded sandwich once again. He considered caving in as he took a large bite, but quickly made up his mind. 'Nup,' he decided, throwing the paper in the bin with a sense of finality.

* * *

_Coming up: _Jack Bolton wonders what he has done wrong now!


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I own nothing, except my own creations.

* * *

Jack Bolton's mind was filled with basketball plays as he made his way down the hall. East High had won their first game against their rivals West High Knights, and he was on a high. The last straggling students dashed for their classes as he dribbled an invisible basketball and sunk an invisible basket.

Celebrating by saluting the invisibile scoreboard, he came to a swift realisation that the hall wasn't so empty when a fuming woman stepped out in front of him.

'My office. Now!' declared Ingrid Darbus.

Wincing inwardly at the sudden steely grip on his upper arm, Jack Bolton obediently deviated from his initial path and stepped into the small room on his left, wondering what he had done wrong this time.

He pulled his arm free as the irate woman flounced away from him and stood on her side of the desk. He took a moment to look around the small room. He never realised Darbus had an actual office before. And even if he did, he doubted that he would have had any interest in knowing where it was.

He snapped back to attention when Darbus snapped her fingers in front of his face. 'Explain this,' demanded the blonde haired woman, pointing at an object lying on top of one of the several tall piles that lined her desk.

Spotting a piece of plastic that looked suspiciously like a pregnancy test, Bolton responded with cheek. 'Well, when a Mummy loves a Daddy very much they make a baby,' he smirked. 'Or when the stork pays you a visit Johnny and Janey, they now have a little baby to play with,' he added. 'Take your pick.'

She was not amused.

Noticing the glare from Darbus was still focused on him, he sighed heavily. 'Which student do I need to get the shotgun out for?' he asked in an exaggerated manner. 'Got an address?'

'You tell me,' came the short response.

_What?! _

Momentarily bemused, he came to a realisation. She wanted his address. So that must mean... 'Troy?!' he said startled.

He knew his son and girlfriend Gabriella were going steady, but he hadn't thought that they'd taken it to the next level. Whilst he had made sure that Troy was well versed in the facts of life, he'd thought his son would be older when the time came to, well, use that knowledge. And if what he thought Darbus was telling him was true, his family was about to expand by one.

Shaken by the prospect that he might soon be a grandfather, his eyes came back to focus on East High's drama teacher as she deliberately placed both hands on her messy desk, leaning forward to rest her body on her arms.

_Why was she shaking her head? _

'Think back Bolton,' she said softly, her tone hard. 'About, ooh, nine weeks ago.'

Rolling his eyes at her flair for the dramatic, he obediently thought back to what he was doing more than two months ago. Basketball, Miami, basketball, end of year party, basketball, holidays, wait... the party.

It was as if she could read his mind as she pushed her glasses up her nose and stared deep into his own eyes. 'Yes. The party.'

As his face showed his disbelief, Darbus laughed harshly. 'Congratulations Bolton, you're going to be a father.'

He stumbled from the room. The sinking feeling that he was going to be a grandfather young had been replaced by an altogether new feeling at the realisation that he was going to be a _father_ again.

Jack Bolton didn't remember how he got through the rest of the day.

Basketball practice could have been a scene right out of The Sound of Music and he wouldn't have noticed. He allowed his assistant coach to run the drills - a rare event in itself - as he stonily read the stat sheets.

He brushed off his son's questions after practice as they walked to the car after. When they pulled into the driveway, he was thankful Troy hadn't crashed on the drive home, although he couldn't really be sure, his supervision less than stellar.

He cited a long day at work as his excuse for a less than enthusiastic welcome home for his wife and his monosyllabic conversation at the dinner table.

Lying in bed later that night, staring up at the dark ceiling, Jack Bolton wondered what mess he had gotten himself into.

* * *

_Next chapter: _A phone call.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I own nothing, except my own creations.

* * *

Hearing the phone ring, Lucille Bolton called down from upstairs where she was busy with a box of materials. 'Jack, get that will you?'

When the phone continued to ring, she dropped the checked pattern and velvet squares and quickly made her own way to the phone. Picking up the handset, she answered a little breathlessly. 'Hello?'

'Could I please speak to a Mr Jack Bolton please,' came the clipped voice on the other end. 'I have an Ingrid Darbus here at the hospital.'

'Ah sure,' said Lucille, wondering why the name sounded familiar. 'Let me just find him.'

'Thank you,' came the polite response as Lucille covered the handset and called for her husband. 'Jack!' she said loudly throughout the house.

Finding no trace of her missing man, she happened to glance out the front window. Spotting her husband on the driveway with his vintage motorcycle, she did a quick turn and headed for the front door. She was wondering vaguely what was on his mind as her husband used 'tinker time' as 'thinking time'.

Getting no response the first time she called his name, she shouted again. 'Jack!'

He finally turned. 'What?' he answered distractedly.

'Phone!' she called from the porch.

'Who is it?' he asked, still only mildly interested.

'The hospital,' she responded. 'They want to talk to you about a woman named, ah, Darbus.'

She was surprised at how fast he stood up at her announcement. Her attempt to retrieve some – well, any – information from her husband about where he was going or what he was doing after he hung up the brief phone call was met with silence.

Her husband was out the door in a flash.

* * *

Jack arrived at the hospital and was guided to the maternity ward. Before he can enter into where he can see Ingrid Darbus was lying on a bed, the doctor accosted him in the hall. 'Jack Bolton?'

'Yes?'

'I'm Doctor Cox,' said the tall man efficiently. 'I understand you're the father of Ms Darbus' child?'

'Ah yeah,' he agreed, somewhat nervous. Stuffing his hands in his jean pockets, he realised that this was the first time that he'd publicly acknowledged and accepted his unborn child.

'Okay,' replied the doctor, referring to the chart in his hand. 'Ms Darbus was admitted into the hospital with abdominal pains. She's having trouble keeping food down and is dehydrated. We have...'

'Is the baby okay?' he interrupted, his heart constricting in fear.

Later he would realise that if Ingrid had lost the baby, all of his problems would have gone away. There would have been no baby, no one night stand and no awkward conversations with his loved ones. But at that moment, his only thought was for his unborn child's wellbeing. And that of his or her mother.

The doctor squeezed his arm. 'The baby is fine.' Snapping the folder shut, he prepared to leave. 'The nurse will be in to see you soon about how you can help keep your wife hydrated and fed.'

He didn't process the fact that Darbus had just been called his wife as he nodded at the doctor's last words and reached out a hand for the door. His palms were sweaty as he struggled for a grip on the smooth metal. On the third try, he opened the door.

He realised that he should have knocked first when the woman on the bed before him startled. Raising his hand in apology, he shut the door gently and shuffled to the end of the bed, stuffing his hands into his pockets once again.

Raising his eyes to where the mother of his child lay on the bed, he noticed that she was not looking her vibrant self. Her large glasses couldn't cover the circles ringing her eyes and she had the pall of someone who had been repeatedly ill. Opening his mouth, she beat him to it.

'Sorry,' she whispered, her hands picking at the pale sheet. It was strange to see this usually feisty woman close to tears. 'I didn't know who else to call.'

'It's fine,' he responded, brushing off her apology.

When she reached out her hand, he had to take it. Stepping around the bed, she squeezed his hand tightly as she pulled him closer. 'I need a favour,' she croaked out.

'A favour?' he repeated uncertainly.

'I need you to feed Kobe.'

'Who's Kobe?'

'My cat.'

* * *

Sliding the bright pink key into the lock, he stepped into the apartment that he'd never expected to see again after that night.

He'd always joked that Darbus seemed to be the type that would have cats, but as he looked for the cat bowl, he realised that it didn't seem so funny now.

The nurse had entered the room after she'd made the request of him, and he'd listened nervously as she informed them on what needed to be done in order to avoid another visit to the hospital. He wasn't entirely sure how he felt as Ingrid had maintained her death grip on his hand and rested her other hand on the sheets that covered her – no, their – child.

He found the cat bowl easily, but it was dealing with the irate feline that suddenly sunk its claws into his leg that was a whole other story.

'Friend Kobe! Friend!' yelled Jack shaking his leg. 'And if you want dinner I suggest you retract them,' he added, muttering under his breath.

The cat finally let go and he poured the cat food into the bowl, plopping it on the ground. With one last hiss in his direction, the mangy cat missing half an ear stalked to the bowl and began eating.

Backing out gingerly, he locked the door and slipped the bright keys into his pocket.

* * *

Letting himself into the house an hour later, he dropped a set of keys onto the bench near the door and entered the kitchen.

He needed a drink.

Flicking on the light, he froze in his tracks at the sight before him. It looked like that drink would have to wait a little longer.

Lucille Bolton sat on a chair on the far side of the kitchen table, deceptively calm as she took a sip of red wine. He spotted the near empty bottle beside her.

With exact precision, his wife placed the drained wine glass on the table, raised her head and looked into his eyes.

'You have some explaining to do.'

* * *

_Next chapter: _I do?


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I own nothing, except my own creations.

* * *

'I do?' ventured Jack.

His wife was not in the mood for games. 'The hospital called again. Apparently this Darbus woman needs her health insurance information so that the maternity ward can finish the paperwork.' Lucille Bolton levelled her gaze on her husband. 'Maternity ward?' she asked mildly.

He was not fooled by her change in tone.

And with good reason as he soon discovered. 'Care to explain why they called here for information on your pregnant 'wife'?' Her voice was icy as she looked him square in the eye. He didn't need words to know what her facial expressions meant. _Explain yourself. _

_Now. _

Jack suspected that this was the only opportunity that he was going to have to deny any involvement with Darbus. He could write it off as some school prank, an April Fools' Joke that was in the wrong month, or a mix up with the paperwork at the hospital.

He couldn't do it.

Stepping forward, his fingers brushed the top of the chair closest to him as he took a deep breath. His knuckles were white as he gripped the wood and he looked at his wife, knowing that no matter what he said next, it was going to hurt her. 'There is something I need to tell you.'

He saw the last spark of hope leave her eyes.

He knew that he owed her an explanation, but he just wasn't ready yet. 'I... I... I really don't want to do it right now,' he said lamely. He'd known his wife for a long time and could see that she was about to explode. And so he begged. 'Can I take you out to dinner tomorrow night? Please?'

The front door slammed.

His eyes widened in fear as he turned to where he heard his son's singing sounding down the hall. He turned desperate eyes back to his wife. Troy's singing stopped before they heard his footsteps make their way to the kitchen.

His eyes never left hers.

Their teenage son dropped his bag on the ground as he raised his hand. It felt like slow motion as he raised his right arm and dangling right there from his fingers was a set of bright pink keys, complete with a bright orange feather. He saw his mouth open slowly as he laughingly asked. 'Whose are these?'

_Oh bother. _

When his wife made no move, he removed his sore fingers from the poor chair and turned to his son with a fake smile plastered on his face. 'They're mine,' he said, trying to be as casual as he could, snatching the keys from Troy's grasp as his mind raced to think of a logical explanation. 'Mixed up keys.'

_Would he believe it? _

'Who did you mix them up with? Ms Darbus?' He winced as his son hit the nail on the head. 'They look like they could be hers!' Troy stopped laughing when he noticed the tension in the room. Looking between his father and his mother who had yet to say anything he was confused. 'Mom? Dad?' he questioned. 'What's wrong?'

The ball was in her court.

Jack's eyes were back on Lucy, and he sent her a silent plea. 'Dinner,' he mouthed silently. His wife turned away without an acknowledgement and he feared the worst. Instead, she calmly picked up the empty wine bottle and wine glass, moving into the kitchen. It felt like a lifetime before she turned and faced their son with a fake smile plastered on her face.

'Nothing's wrong sweetheart.'

'Your father needs to go out tonight,' continued Lucille Bolton.'So it's just you and I for dinner. What do you want to eat?' Listening to his son request spaghetti bolognaise, he knew that he'd just been kicked out of the house for the night.

Fair enough.

Summarily dismissed, he spoke a farewell that was ignored by his wife, patted his son on the shoulder and pocketed the keys. Tripping over his son's bag, he refrained from his usual diatribe for messiness and moved on. Stepping out the front door, he sucked in the cold, night air.

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

_Next chapter: _Start talking.


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I own nothing, except my own creations.

* * *

The following night, you could cut the tension with a knife in the short drive from their house to a small restaurant close by.

Jack advised of a booking for Bolton for two and they were summarily escorted to a table near the wall.

Menus were briefly viewed and the waiter hastily dispatched with an entree and main order for each. Lucille Bolton – never one to beat around in the bush – leant forward the on the table, clasped her hands together and looked him in the eye. 'Talk.'

Deciding to dive in head first and just blurt it out – knowing that his wife would not be impressed if he tried to dress it up – Jack did just that.

When he revealed to his wife that he had fathered a child with Ingrid Darbus after a drunken one night stand after the staff party, her first reaction was one of complete and utter silence.

He'd expected that she had guessed what he was going to tell her tonight, but he was ill prepared for when she suddenly stood up, picked up her glass of water and threw it at his face.

Watching her snatch up her bag and storm out of the restaurant, he blinked his eyes as water ran down his face, soaked his shirt and dripped onto the white tablecloth.

He didn't need to look to know that his fellow patrons were giving him looks that ranged between sympathy, pity and 'I don't know that just happened, but it serves you right'.

Picking up his napkin, he mopped his face, taking a moment to bury his head in the cloth – leaving the real world for just a second – before he dropped it and rose.

Slapping down enough money to cover the meals that they would now not eat – in hindsight, he really should have limited their food choices to just entree – Jack smiled tightly at the waiter and left the restaurant with his head held high.

His head wasn't standing so high when he realised that Lucille was pulling out of the car park in their car. But instead of leaving, she drove up to him, wound down the window and shouted at him. 'I actually thought – still hoped – that you wouldn't turn out to be the bastard that you are.'

Not responding, he moved to get into the car. 'Can we please talk about this?'

She refused to let him in. 'Find your own way home.'

Wondering if he would have a house to return to, Jack Bolton paid the taxi that had driven him home in record time. Sprinting up the path to the house, he noted the open front door. Dashing through, he raced up the stairs to their bedroom.

There before him was a suitcase rapidly filling with clothes as his angry wife moved between the bed and the chest of drawers. Thinking that he was the one being kicked out, it took him a moment to realise that it was her own clothes that she was throwing in with no order – not his.

'We can talk about this. Work it out,' he pleaded, but his wife didn't let up, continuing to stuff clothes into the suitcase.

The only words she exchanged with him – though it was more of a shout than a dialogue – was when said she was leaving. 'I'll be at Sarah's house,' she said, her furious eyes falling upon him for short seconds. 'Do _not _contact me there. I will contact you.'

The suitcase was snapped shut and she heaved the heavy object off the bed easily. She didn't care that he was blocking her path out of the room, angrily pushing at his chest and shoving him to the side.

She turned just before she left his sight and his heart clenched when he saw the pain in her features. 'Tell Troy that I'm sorry I won't be home for a while.'

'What do I tell him?' he asked bewilderedly.

'I have complete confidence that you'll be able to think of something,' she spat out back at him.

He wanted to beg her to stay – for them to talk about it – but at that moment, his mobile rang. Lucille tensed, frozen to the spot. 'That's probably her isn't it?' she spat out. 'Well, go on, answer it,' she taunted. 'I most certainly don't need you here.'

The last thing Jack Bolton heard was the front door slamming before a car took off seconds later.

Thankful that Troy was on a date with Gabriella, and wouldn't be home for a few hours for curfew, he noted his caller id. Seeing it was his neighbour, he decided to let the call ring out. _Let voicemail get it. _

In the still house, he felt the weight of the world on his shoulders. How was he going to explain to his son that his mother wasn't going to be home for a while?

* * *

_Next chapter:_ Chaos reigns in the Bolton household.


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: I own nothing, except my own creations.

* * *

A week and a half later Jack and Troy Bolton tried to get ready for work and school. Jack had run out of clean shirts and Troy needed basketball shorts. Whilst the kitchen dishes were washed, the benches and stove top hadn't seen the love of a firm scrub in a while.

Jack was looking for something – anything – that they might be able to eat for lunches in the fridge when the phone rang. It was Troy who answered.

After a very short conversation with the person on the other end, Troy handed the phone to his father. 'It's for you,' he said. 'It's Mom.'

Jack froze, before he took the phone. Not wanting to paint his wife in a bad light, and knowing that none of this was her fault, Jack had glossed over the reason for her absence with his son. Reaching for the handset, he tightly smiled his thanks to his boy as he headed out of the room. 'Luce?' he asked, quickly correcting himself. 'Sorry, Lucille.'

'Hello Jack.'

'How are you?' he asked carefully.

She deemed not to respond, instead responding with a question of her own. 'Did you figure out how to work the washing machine?' Hearing her laugh, he wondered if perhaps they still had a chance. 'We managed,' he responded lightly. 'The iron is another matter though.'

Awkward silence reigned before Lucille spoke again. 'I want counselling.'

'Okay,' he promised readily. He could do that.

'Good,' she responded. 'How's Troy?'

'Good,' he said, responding in kind. 'His life is a whirlwind of basketball, singing and a girlfriend. He's missing you,' he added quickly.

'What did you tell him?'

'I said you needed time to yourself.'

'Right.'

Silence hung between them again before he took the initiative to speak this time. 'So you'll call with the counselling times?' he asked.

'I'll call,' she promised.

Farewells dispensed with, Lucille Bolton had one last thing to say. 'Oh and Jack?'

'Yes?'

'I expect that Troy be told about this before then.'

* * *

Later that day, cooking spaghetti bolognaise for the fifth time since the two of them had had to fend for themselves, Jack looked out to where Troy was dribbling and shooting baskets. Wiping his hands on a teatowel, he turned the sauce down to a simmer and headed outside.

Snagging the ball from Troy, he did a line up and sunk it. Retrieving the ball, he passed it from hand to hand as he stood still.

'Dad?' called the teenager, waving his arms in the air. 'Hello? Throw the ball.'

'Son,' he said officially. 'I have something I need to tell you.'

'Okay,' said Troy, shrugging his shoulders.

'How do you feel about a sibling?' he asked generally, throwing the ball.

'A kid brother or sister?' asked Troy, catching the ball. He bounced it twice before shooting. 'Sure, that would be cool I guess.' Catching the rebound, he jumped to shoot again laughing. 'It is just plain weird thinking about your parents having sex.'

'About that...' trailed off Jack. 'Your mother's not the one that is pregnant,'

Troy was confused, before he realised that this mean. Throwing the ball hard to his father, he had an equally hard question to match. 'Who the hell did you sleep with?' he asked.

'Ingrid Darbus,' he answered, bravely ready for whatever came his way. He bounced the ball as his son's jaw dropped.

'Darbus?' laughed Troy incredulously, shock clear. 'Coach Bolton slept with Ms Darbus? You've got to be joking.'

'Wish I was kid,' he replied, his tone tinged with sadness.

'Is that why Mom left?' asked the teenager furiously. 'Because you cheated on her?'

'It was only one night,' he protested, but refrained from justifying himself further. 'Yeah, that's why she left.'

'How could you do that to Mom?' asked Troy angrily, protective instincts kicking in as he snatched the ball from his father's grasp.

He couldn't offer any explanation. _It was a mistake? _Sure, the one night stand was a mistake, but he refused to call the baby that would be Troy's half-sister or half-brother in six months time a mistake.

Watching his son run furiously around the faux court, shooting – and missing – several baskets, Jack waited patiently. Troy was panting and sweating when he missed his final shot. The teen let the ball roll away as he faced his father. 'Is she coming back?'

'I don't know son,' said Jack honestly. 'I don't know. That decision will rest with her.'

* * *

The decision did rest with her and it only took Lucille Bolton five minutes into the counselling session four days later to know what that decision would be.

Listening to her husband declare that he was going to publicly acknowledge his paternity of Ingrid Darbus' child and support the woman he'd knocked up in a one night start every step of the way, she knew.

Unable to face the prospect of remaining married to a man that another woman would rely upon, she knew. Faced with the prospect of being a stepmother to the child that would spend weekends with their father, she knew.

With the words of her good friend Sarah Michaels, newly divorced herself, in her mind and recalling her encouragement to join her on the singles scene once again, she knew.

Looking at the handsome man she'd married right out of college twenty years ago, she wondered where she'd gone wrong. And then before she knew it, she interrupted the counsellor and asked for a divorce.

As both her soon-to-be ex-husband and the shocked counsellor looked at her, she was intrigued to discover in the face of divorce, she wasn't as heartbroken as she should have been.

When had she stopped wanting to be Jack Bolton's wife?

She suspected that the turning point had been when Troy had headed for high school. With Jack heading the sporting faculty at East High, her two boys had bonded like never before when their love of basketball had them out of the house for hours upon end, whilst she found happiness in her interior design business.

She'd ceased to be Jack Bolton's wife in any means other than as a token a long time ago.

Rising from her seat, she ignored the pleas of both to sit and talk about it. 'Divorce is a drastic step,' called the counsellor as she marched out the door. 'We should work through your issues first.'

She left the building and breathed in a breath of fresh air. She hadn't felt this free in a long time.

* * *

_Next chapter:_ Kensi loved the arts, bowed to the arts, respected the arts. But if the woman who was her portal to the greater arts changed her mood once more today, she was going to quit. No questions asked.


End file.
